Wow! Listen to me, sounding just like my dear, sweet, Ukrainian grandmother. But to tell the truth, there are days — like today — when I feel the way she must have felt . . . only she never complained, except for the occasional muttered “Oy!” and a little grunt when she stood up. But I was just a kid then, so what did I know? Nothing. I knew nothing.

Even as an adult — when I was living in Prague that wonderful summer of 1991 — I remember walking to work one morning and seeing an older lady walking ahead of me, having obvious difficulty making it up the hill. I could see that her legs were bowed and gnarled, and I remember thinking how grateful I was for my good health and mobility. But I was a much younger woman then, so what did I know? Nothing. I still knew nothing.

So do you want to hear about my back or not? All right, you’ll listen and I’ll tell you.

Sometime during the night last night, someone obviously sneaked into my bedroom and lit me on fire with a torch, then ran over me with a steamroller, because when I got up this morning I could barely move.

I figure it’s either a pinched nerve or just more of the old degenerative disc disease I’ve been dealing with for years. I don’t care which it is . . . I’m not having any more surgery.

Anyway, the burning extends from just above the coccyx (that’s your tailbone, so don’t bother looking it up), around to the left hip, and up the left side to above the waist.

That’s where it runs into the pain from the vise on my left shoulder and neck, obviously placed there by the same evil night-crawling visitor that torched my back. This happens periodically — though not usually at the same time as the back thing, and I can’t figure out whether it runs from the neck to the shoulder or vice-versa. Again, it doesn’t matter; it just hurts like hell. It’s probably from all the hours of sitting here in one position, typing away on this blog like someone possessed because I think that what I have to say to the world really matters.

Delusional, possibly. But not a hypochondriac . . . the pain is real.

Next: my right thumb. Actually, there’s a not-unexpected touch of arthritis in both hands . . . I am at that age, you know. But sometimes that thumb — just the right one because, of course, I’m right-handed so it would be that one in order to inflict maximum inconvenience — hurts like a mother****er, and I find myself envying all of those so-called “lesser” animals who don’t have opposable thumbs and still manage to function very nicely without them. For us humans, though, it’s damned annoying.

As for the other two extremities — the feet — well, they were destroyed years ago by those beautiful four-inch Ferragamo heels I wore back in the days of panty hose and dressing for success. So no need to go into detail there.

And heading north, all the way to the top, we run into those four mysterious things called the sinus cavities. They’re a mystery simply because . . . well . . . they don’t really exist, do they? I mean, they’re cavities. Holes. Spaces. Not things at all. So how in hell do they have the power to make your face feel as though you’d volunteered your head for duty as Muhammad Ali’s punching bag? They used to act up just during the spring and fall pollen seasons, but now they make their presence felt pretty much year-round. Blame it on climate change.

And so we wind up our tour of Brendochka’s battered body somewhere in the middle. Do we really want to go into detail about my digestive system? I didn’t think so. Suffice it to say, then, that it’s shot. Ruined. Useless. Between the GERD and the hiatal hernia, it can’t digest anything any longer.

So while I was tossing and turning last night, trying to ease my back into some sort of almost-comfortable position, I found myself swearing at my mid-section because it was reacting to that dish of ice cream I’d had after dinner. Ice cream, for heaven’s sake! We’re not talking about pizza, or five-alarm chili, or a hot Polish sausage with onions and peppers like I used to eat with great gusto. Just plain, bland, freakin’ ice cream.

*. *. *

And do you want to know what bothered me most during those torturous hours between 2:00 and 8:00 a.m.? It was that, while I was talking to my stomach, I swear I heard it answer.

So I’m probably going bonkers as well.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
12/12/24